


In My Image

by Black_piano_keys



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Chocolate Box Treat, Dubious Consent, Dysfunctional Relationships, M/M, Nightmares, Parent/Child Incest, Restraints, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-19 14:24:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22712227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_piano_keys/pseuds/Black_piano_keys
Summary: After the events of "Eye of the Needle," Malcolm dreams of his father.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly
Comments: 8
Kudos: 86
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	In My Image

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wholeyolk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wholeyolk/gifts).



> Happy Valentine's Day!
> 
> (I opted for the Rape/Non-con warning, just in case, but I'm not sure the story qualifies for it. Better safe than sorry, I figure.)

“Malcolm?” Martin Whitly stood at the end of Malcolm’s bed, his white shirt and pants wrinkled, his hair in disarray. “You really should learn to listen to your father. You’ve been bad about that lately, and I think it’s taking a toll.” 

Martin’s beaming smile made Malcolm’s stomach clench. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to roll onto his side, and his wrist restraint reminded him of his limitations. 

That’s right, Martin couldn’t possibly be in his apartment. He’d put in his mouthguard and secured the straps to his wrists, and finally fallen into a restless sleep. He was dreaming, and since he was aware he was dreaming, he could wake himself up at any time.

Martin now wore a thick, soft-looking sweater, hands in his pockets, and glared at Malcolm with something like pity. “Look at you. Tying yourself into your own bed . . . in such a state.”

Malcolm lay naked on top of the sheets, not the state he went to sleep in, and his cock lay hard against his stomach in full view of Martin and anyone who might walk in unannounced, as his mother had a habit of doing. 

He plucked at a wrist restraint to free himself and pull a sheet over his nakedness, but the strap shortened, yanking his arm to the side and out of reach. His other arm snapped to the bed in the same way. 

“Undo these,” he tried to say, but the mouthguard kept him from speaking clearly. “Unstrap my wrists,” came out no clearer. 

Martin kept smiling and moved closer as the end of the bed shortened, disappearing into Malcolm’s dreamworld, until his legs dangled over the end and Martin stood between his knees. His grin faded into something more thoughtful as he stared at Malcolm’s cock. When he slid his palm up its length, Malcolm kicked both legs at him but never made contact. His knees bent, his legs spread, and something held his ankles in place. 

“No,” he shouted, and spit the mouthguard so he could be clear. It stayed in place. Malcolm pushed against it with his tongue, shook his head and blew to try to dislodge it, but like his arms and legs, he had no control over it. 

_I’m aware that I’m dreaming. I can wake myself up anytime I want to. Just a dream, it’s just a dream._

“You stabbed me, my boy.” Martin pushed his slacks down and leaned against Malcolm. “Stabbing is inherently phallic, wouldn’t you say?”

Malcolm felt Martin line himself up, then push into him. He braced for it, but there was no pain. Just an overwhelming sense of losing something. Of something being taken from him.

Martin paused, his smile wicked. “With the steadiest fucking hand you’ve ever had in your life, you stabbed me. You _penetrated_ me.”

Martin snapped his hips and thrust fully inside Malcolm. “Surely you won’t mind a little quid pro quo. I mean, I’m impressive, but I won’t get anywhere near your heart with this, will I?”

Malcolm pulled against the wrist restraints until his skin burned beneath them, tried to move his body up the bed, away from his father, but he almost felt glued in place. 

_It’s just a dream_

“You’ll ask yourself later, how was it that stabbing me came so easily to you? You’re welcome for that, by the way. You would never have done it if I hadn’t lied and said I’d tried to kill you.”

Malcolm sucked air through his nose and shook his head. It hadn’t been a lie. _This_ was the lie. 

“I made you, my boy. And in many ways, some of them regrettable, I’ve unmade you. But I would never intentionally hurt you. I only told him that to lure him to the cabin so I could kill him. Things went a little sideways, and . . . here we are.”

He thrust deep and let his head roll back on his shoulders with a hiss. 

“You’re like me, Malcolm, and it only makes me love you more. No one else can understand you the way I do, just as no one else understands me like you do.”

_Just a dream just a dream_

Martin ran his hands up and down Malcolm’s sides, his touch lingering on the puckered scar where Watkins had stabbed him. “I’ll kill him for hurting you this way, if I ever get the chance.”

With a groan, Martin slid his hands to Malcolm’s thighs, holding them up and apart, and doubled his pace. Their bodies slapped together, faster, louder. A spiral of heat built inside Malcolm. 

“I made you. You’re mine. You only have emotional problems, tremors, night terrors, because you’re fighting your nature. Fighting your desire. You’re the one destroying yourself, my boy, by trying to pretend we’re not the same.”

“No,” Malcolm shouted around the mouthguard. “Not true.” He gasped as Martin leaned forward and thrust. 

“It’s true. Case in point, my dear, you’ve been telling yourself over and over again that this is a dream and you can wake yourself up from it anytime you want.”

Martin’s hips stuttered and he gasped. “So ask yourself why you never even tried?”

He slammed forward, filling Malcolm as he screamed in pleasure, his scream the same as when Malcolm had plunged the ceramic spike between his ribs. 

Malcolm’s eyes snapped open. Pleasure rocketed through him as he came, arching and rocking off the mattress, sending an ache into his thigh muscles as he tensed and rode the wave of it for as long as it would last. 

He spit the mouthguard and sent it flying across the room as he clawed at the straps to remove them. “I’m nothing like you,” he ground out, the shakiness in his own voice ratcheting his pulse up a couple of notches. 

Martin’s voice echoed in his head. “I created you in my image, and oh, _my boy_ , you were such an impressive pupil. Yet, so much to learn. If I don’t die, you and I can still do great things together, Malcolm.”

He showered, trying not to think about what had happened, and when the hospital called with an update on his father’s condition, he let it go to voicemail. He didn’t need Martin, didn’t even want him in his life, so whether the man would live or die wasn’t something he wanted to focus on. He could live his life without thinking about his relationship with his father every hour of every day. It didn’t _matter_ to him. It _couldn’t_. He wouldn't let it.

Malcolm called them back three minutes later.


End file.
